by J. L. Abramo
“Mr. Ventura, I wish to employ you to find out who killed Carmine. I will pay your standard fees plus a handsome bonus for speedy, accurate results.”
That may have been the worst thing anyone ever said to me since Mary Esposito told me to take my hand off her breast when I was in seventh grade.
“Mr. Pugno...”
“Please, be kind enough to hear me out.”
“Of course.”
“My youngest son was shot down like a dog in front of his wife and his children—my grandchildren. The assassin walked away unmolested and no one could or would identify the man.”
“Mr. Pugno, I am sure the police are doing everything possible to identify and locate the perpetrator.”
Pugno went on to explain why he disagreed, why he felt it necessary to outsource the investigation, and why he had chosen me for the assignment.
“Mr. Ventura, please take a while to consider my request—a short while. I am confident you will decide to assist me and do so with the utmost diligence and discretion. You know how to reach me.”
And the line went dead.
And I wished I had stayed in bed for at least a week.
I took Pugno’s request for discretion to heart—but not bringing John Sullivan in on this was not an option. I phoned the 70th Precinct and asked for Detective Sullivan.
“John, we need to talk,” I said, when he came on the line.
“We are talking.”
“We need to talk in person.”
“At the risk of sounding self-important, Nick, I’m a very busy man.”
“Please, Johnny, it’s serious.”
“It always is when you call me Johnny. We can talk over lunch. I can give you an hour, and not a minute more, including travel time.”
“I’ll come out your way.”
“Let’s make it Chu’s Gourmet on Livingston Street at two.”
“Can you make it earlier?”
“I can’t get out of here much sooner, Nicky, and the restaurant is a madhouse between eleven and two.”
“Okay, good. Thanks.”
“One hour, not a minute longer.”
“Got it. Don’t you ever get tired of Chinese food?”
“Not when you’re buying.”
I decided if I had to wait nearly four hours I might as well do a little homework. I walked down to the newsstand on Mermaid Avenue and picked up The New York Times and more coffee. The Times would have fewer gory photos and more detailed information.
Back at my desk I soon discovered there were not many details at all, even in the rag with all the news that’s fit to print.
There were only four witnesses in the vicinity of the scene, not counting Carmine’s wife and two children who were in the family Cadillac Escalade. The accounts were all essentially the same. Carmine had walked his family to the passenger side of the Escalade, put his kids in the back seat and his wife in front, and then walked around to the driver’s side of the vehicle. Before Pugno could get the car door opened, a man stepped out from the unlit vestibule of an Optometrist Office adjacent to the restaurant, moved quickly to where Carmine stood and put a large hole into the back of Pugno’s head. The shooter walked briskly to 68th Street and turned left toward 21st Avenue. No one cared to follow. When the police arrived, they found Carmine’s wife had jumped into the back seat and was using the length of her body to shield the children.
The descriptions of the shooter were little more than useless. A white male, five-ten to six feet tall, black slacks and shoes, a black leather blazer and a brimmed riding cap shading his eyes. The weapon was later found in the gutter on 68th Street. Thirty-eight caliber, taped grip and trigger, no serial number, no prints. That, along with quoted statements from detectives at the scene, made it seem as if the investigation would be over before it began.
I could understand why Ferdinand Pugno felt identification of his son’s killer might be challenging for the police, but could not understand why Pugno imagined I could do any better. Pugno must have mistaken me for Sherlock Holmes or Harry Houdini—but there was no good way to tell “The Fist” he was seriously misguided.
I hoped John Sullivan could teach me a few magic tricks.
The lunch crowd had pretty much cleared out by the time I walked into Chu’s Gourmet at two. John was already seated, studying a menu. I joined him at the table.
“Pick your poison,” he said, offering the bill of fare.
“Get what you like. I lost my appetite.”
A waitress materialized almost immediately and John ordered.
“So, what’s it about?”
“It’s about a call I received from Ferdinand Pugno.”
“Oh?”
“He wants to employ me to find out who killed his son, Carmine.”
“Why would he want to do that? Does he lack confidence in the abilities and resources of the NYPD?”
“I would say he’s under the impression the NYPD lacks enthusiasm when it comes to investigating which mobster murdered what mobster.”
“Did he say that?”
“More or less.”
“That’s not entirely true, we take all homicides seriously.”
“I’ve been around cops long enough to know there are more than a few who believe that when these guys knock each other off they’re doing everyone a favor. I recall you saying good riddance once or twice yourself. I’m not agreeing or disagreeing with Pugno’s assessment—but it doesn’t really matter what you or I think. The fact remains he feels the need for an outside inquiry.”
“So why doesn’t he conduct his own investigation?”
“The old man is retired. Carmine took over the reins some time ago. Ferdinand said he is out of touch with the current politics of the “Families.” He said he is not certain who the enemies are anymore. And after the recent business with Frankie Atanasio and Sonny Balducci over who would step up as Carmine’s number two guy, and the way it all played out, Ferdinand doesn’t know who to trust. He can’t rule out the possibility that the assassination may have been orchestrated by someone inside Carmine’s own organization. Do you happen to know who stepped up to the number two spot after Frankie and Sonny dropped out of the picture?”
“From what I’ve heard, Eddie Brigati earned the dubious honor. No offense, Nick, but why did Ferdinand Pugno choose you?”
“No offense taken, I have no fucking idea. It’s delusional.”
“If you were smart, you would stay as far away from this as you possibly can. You would be safer in a cage full of tigers.”
“I know that, John. But saying no to Pugno may not be much smarter. And don’t forget it was Carmine Pugno, at the request of his father, who helped us find the Rose brothers after they put a terrible scare into your daughter and nearly beat my Uncle Sal to death.”
“I haven’t forgotten, but I don’t decide the priorities of the department.”
“I understand that.”
“So what are you asking me to do?”
“Let me know about anything helpful you might hear around the shop, and give me some guidance—because honestly, Johnny, I have no fucking idea where to begin.”
“You begin by not beginning until we talk again,” Sullivan said, looking at his wristwatch. “I need to get back to the precinct, but I can take a few hours off early tomorrow. Meanwhile, I will find out who is running the investigation and if there is anything new—anything more than a white guy in hat and a leather jacket. Don’t talk to a soul before we meet again in the morning.”
“What about Ferdinand Pugno? Can I talk to him?”
“Look, Nick, you’re between a rock and a very hard rock. You do what you believe you need to do, and I will try to help. If you can’t say no to Pugno, tell him you are willing to try your best. And while you’re at it, you might ask the old man who figures to be running the show now that he’s retired and out of touch—and his successor is lying in a box at the Cusimano and Russo Funeral Home.”
Not a bad question, if I cou
ld phrase it more delicately.
“I really need to run, Nick.”
“You didn’t touch your food.”
“I lost my appetite.”
I couldn’t see any point in going back to my office. I wasn’t about to consider taking any new cases before I figured out how to survive this one.
I drove home to Sheepshead Bay instead.
I had a couple of drinks before calling Ferdinand Pugno. I didn’t think I should make him wait much longer for an answer. As I dialed the number, I felt like I was climbing aboard the Titanic after it hit the iceberg.
“Mr. Ventura. Thank you for calling back so soon.”
What I said rolled off my tongue like a cinder block.
“Mr. Pugno, I will do what I can—do my best—to assist you.”
“I am pleased to hear that. If there is anything I can do to help, short of being seen as actively involved in your investigation, please let me know.”
I had just boarded a capsized ship, and Ferdinand Pugno didn’t want to get his feet wet. Good work, Nick.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Certainly,” Pugno said.
“With Carmine sadly gone, who will be taking charge of his business?”
“I really can’t say, Mr. Ventura.”
So much for good questions.
“As I mentioned earlier,” Pugno continued, “you will be rewarded with a substantial bonus if you succeed.”
I didn’t ask what the reward would be for failure.
“I will be in touch, Mr. Pugno.”
And I was in up to my neck.
As Carmella had predicted much earlier, it had turned into a beautiful June afternoon—if you were talking about the weather. I carried the bottle of Knob’s Creek out to the deck of the houseboat and picked up where I had left off before calling Ferdinand Pugno.
Sitting in the warm sun sipping bourbon helped me temporarily put out of mind the storm I was about to walk into.
But temporarily never lasts very long.
The next morning John called and asked me to meet him at Café La Morena in Sunset Park. It was a place we both knew, and it was somewhat off the radar. The restaurant owner, Hector Ramirez, was a friend—and there was a rear dining room, not used before lunch hour, where we could talk in private.
On my way out I spotted an envelope tucked under the cabin door. In it were ten one hundred dollar bills.
It was a sure bet Ferdinand Pugno had sent over a down payment to seal our deal.
Hector offered to whip up huevos rancheros for John and me, we thanked him and insisted just coffee would be fine. He sent his daughter back with two cups, a thermos pitcher and a plate of besitos de coco—Caribbean coconut macaroons.
“Did you speak to Pugno?” John asked.
“Yes. I did.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I said I would give it my best shot.”
“Did you ask him about who would take the helm with Carmine gone?”
“He said he couldn’t say.”
“That sounds paradoxical.”
“Over the telephone, it sounded like stonewalling. Did you have any better luck on your end?”
“Not a hell of a lot. Don’t stop me if you’ve heard some of it before.”
“Go.”
“I got this from Danny Reagan at the Sixty-Second. He and his partner, Phil Ames, caught the case. There were seven witnesses to the shooting—four on the street and three in Carmine’s Escalade. When Reagan and Ames got to the scene, they assigned two uniformed officers to escort Carmine’s family to their residence. One drove the Cadillac with the wife and kids aboard, the second followed in their patrol car. They were told to get the family safely inside and then sit in their vehicle in front of the house. The detectives would be there to speak with the victim’s wife as soon as they were done interviewing the other witnesses at the scene.”
“Okay.”
“All four bystanders gave similar worthless descriptions of the shooter. It happened so fast, and they were all pretty shook up. Carmine’s brains were all over the sidewalk. But Reagan felt one of the witnesses was holding something back. He said it was something in the guy’s voice and in his demeanor.”
“A hunch?”
“Intuition, whatever, a good detective counts on it when there is little else to go on. He mentioned it to his commanding officer. His CO told him to write up his report and skip the guesswork.”
“Can you get me that witness’s name?”
“Wait. Reagan and Ames go out to the Pugno residence to talk with his wife. She has nothing useful to add. Then out of the blue one of the kids says he thinks he has seen the shooter before—but can’t remember when or where. His mother cuts him off and sends the kids off to their rooms. Reagan says he would like to talk further with the boy, Carmine’s wife said she won’t have her eight-year-old boy interrogated. She tells the detectives that from where she was seated—on the passenger side of the vehicle—there was no view of the shooter above his chest. The boy was on the passenger side behind her, she jumped over to the back seat immediately following the gunshot to shield the children, and they could not have possibly seen the shooter’s face. She tells them the children are disturbed and confused, she needs time alone with them, and the detectives need to leave her to it.”
“What did Reagan make of that?”
“He didn’t know what to make of it. He brought the kid’s statement to his CO also and was advised to leave the children out of it.”
“What do you make of it?”
“Eight-year-old boys can be very imaginative. I have one at home. Even if he saw the shooter’s face, he said he couldn’t place it. And on top of that, no one is going to get close enough to the kid to ask him the time of day without his mother’s permission.”
“So, we’re back to the demeanor of the fourth bystander and the value of a good detective’s intuition,” I said. “Did you get a name?”
“I feel I need to tell you again you should bow out of this. Do you know the story about Brooklyn Tony and the candy bars?”
“No, but I’m sure I’m about to hear it.”
“Brooklyn Tony is sitting at the end of a park bench, eating candy bars. He unwraps a seventh bar and takes a big bite. A guy at the other end of the bench says: You know, son, that’s not very good for you. All that sugar is bad for your teeth and your heart. Tony says: My grandfather lived to be one hundred and six years old. The guy says: That’s wonderful. But did your grandfather eat seven candy bars in a row? And Brooklyn Tony says: No, but he minded his own fucking business.”
“The key to longevity.”
“Exactly,” John said.
I pulled out the envelope I found on the houseboat and passed it to Sullivan. He counted the bills.
“Pugno sent a retainer,” I said. “So I guess, like it or not, now it is my business.”
Sullivan passed the envelope back to me, reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a slip of paper
“The witness’s name is Jack Valenti. Here’s his address.”
The big news was I knew the guy.
I had known Jack Valenti for a very long time, from our schoolyard days. Back then, Jack was almost as good as I was at getting into trouble, and he had continued developing the talent ever since.
Valenti had been arrested and convicted for purse-snatching a few years back. Second offense. Fortunately for Jack, there wasn’t enough cash in the purse to earn him a grand larceny rap. He was released on parole after serving fourteen months of a two-year sentence.
A few months after his release, Jack came to my office with a problem.
He had been bussing at a high-end restaurant in Bay Ridge and lifted a two hundred dollar cash tip from a table he was clearing. The next morning he was called into the manager’s office. He had been caught in high definition on a security camera. He was fired on the spot and assured he would be reported to his parole officer if the money wasn’t returned befo
re the end of the day. An hour later he was rapping on my door.
“I need two hundred dollars, Nick.”
“What happened to the money you borrowed from the wait staff?”
“I gave it to my bookie last night to meet a serious deadline.”
“I’m a private investigator, Jack, not a Citibank loan officer.”
“Please, Nicky, they’ll put me back in the joint. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. I have no one else to turn to.”
That in itself was a sad state of affairs.
I gave him the two spot.
Valenti repaid my loan at twenty bucks a week after he finally landed another job as the night dishwasher and janitor at the Torres Restaurant on Bay Parkway.
After leaving Sullivan, I drove out to the address he had given me for Jack Valenti. It was a badly run-down apartment building in East Flatbush. I caught him coming out of the building just as I pulled up in front.
I hoped it meant my luck was changing.
“Jack.”
Once he recognized me, he walked up to my window.
“Nick, what brings you out this way?”
“Have you eaten?”
“I was heading over to KFC.”
“Hop in. I’ll take you over to Island Burger for lunch. I’m buying.”
It was only a five minute drive to the popular eatery on Utica Avenue, talking baseball and the weather on the way. At half past eleven the place was filling up quickly. Jack and I grabbed one of the last empty tables. We took our seats and Valenti went straight for the menu.
“Can I order the baby back ribs?” he asked.
“Whatever you want, Jack.”
I went for a barbeque chicken sandwich and the corn soup.
“I hear you ran into some drama on Bay Parkway,” I said.
“Is that what this is about, Nick?”
“It’s about catching up.”
“I told the police everything I know.”
“One of the detectives thought you were holding something back.”
“Since when do you care what a cop thinks?”
“Help me out here.”
“You know I’m still on parole. I don’t want to say something that could put me back in.”
